


Wild Honey

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament), תנ"ך | Tanakh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-18
Updated: 2007-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 01:18:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1623896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old memories linger to tempt a weary king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ChibiRHM

 

 

The spring came rolling in on the new winds from the sea, and they blew through Israel like the breath of the Lord, scattering sheep on Mount Tabor and shaking the barley in the fields of Ephraim. In the outskirts of Jerusalem, an old woman set her weaving down, lifted her eyes to the scudding clouds and smiled. In the stables of the palace, a restless mare stamped and tossed her head, while the stable boy trimmed down acacia branches into arrow shafts, binding on the sharp flint heads with horsehair. The nations were awaking from their winter sleep, and the birds sang of battle as they flew home to roost. The men of Rabbah were stirring in the east.

In the cool halls of the palace, David paced uneasily, rubbing at his beard. It was to be war again; Hanun had a short memory, and there were already murmurings in Ammon for revenge, for a ravaging of Israel to repay what they had lost. No doubt Joab would be for striking first. It made the most sense to do so; if Rabbah were to fall Hanun's power in the land would be thoroughly broken, and a new king would be far more amenable to David's terms. Besides, it would be good to leave the city, to feel the spring winds in his hair and Gibor's hoofs pounding down the valley to where the Jordan rolled, the roaring eastern border of the Promised Land, a great trumpet of the Lord.

And yet. He would take out his sword to practice sparring with Joab, and it felt too heavy in his hand, the hilt twisting in his sweaty palm as if trying to free itself from somewhere it didn't belong. He slept fitfully, waking in the darkest hours and trying to wring a lullaby from his lyre, but managing only mournful notes that seemed to hang in the air even after he had returned to bed. He had not sent to the harem for weeks, now; he could barely summon an interest in lying with any of them, and the king could hardly call a woman to his bed and simply talk to her for a few hours.

So he lay uneasy, and as the land sang of battle the king dreamed in the silent dark. And when the spring winds raced through the city and the men of Israel rode out to war, Gibor stood alone in the palace stables, and the king sat atop the roof at night, and searched the sky for answers.

 

 

 

It was a still, quiet night, with the moon waning on the northern horizon, and the Bear striding boldly across the sky. The days were getting hotter as summer approached, but at night even the city was cool, and David's mind felt clearer in the thin silver light of the stars. He did not play up here, but the walking was more restful for the heart than in the corridors below. Perhaps there was something humbling in the great black expanse of the firmament.

David paused along the western side of the roof to look down across the city. There were little yellow flickers here and there, where late fires still danced, but most of the houses were dark, their windows speaking only of sleep. His gaze drifted lazily over loose thatch and smooth mud roofs, the houses of the city wandering untidily down the slope of the mountain. Here and there the moonlight drew white lines and cool shadows around the remnants of the day left on the roofs; washing tubs and wine jars, there a stool and a workman's bench, and there...

The silence of the night seemed to crawl in closer, right against his skin. On a rooftop beyond the eastern wall of the royal compound stood a woman, boldly naked before the sleeping city, water pouring over her body from a jar she held high over her head. The pale light slid like the water over the low shapes of her breasts and the gentle curve of her hips, glinting off wet hair that fell to her waist. She moved slowly through the water, and something stirred at the back of David's mind, the memory of another lithe body limned in moonlight, what might have been an age ago. He felt his mouth go dry. He had gone weeks without a woman's touch, without _wanting_ it, but suddenly he felt a wave of desire break over him with all the fierce power of the sea.

It seemed only yesterday that they had gone out from the city, hale and laughing in the warmth of another spring, up into the mountains where the lions and the wild deer stalked, and hunting was fine sport for carefree young princes and their courtiers. They had gone away from the others, and come upon a little grove around a waterfall, where the trees whispered in the mountain breeze, and night wrapped close around bare skin and bodies entwined amongst the trees.

He had played his lyre there, to the rhythm of cascading water, and it was all one, the music and their lovers' dance, sweat and laughter and life so fierce it seemed to pulse like their heartbeats. There they were not shepherd boy and prince, and Samuel's anointing did not burn like shame on David's forehead. There was no politics, no plots whispered in courtyards and treachery clothed in smiles. Jonathan would lie in the long grass beside the pool and sing like any man drunk on sweet wine and love.

David walked down into the palace like a man bewitched, and caught the first slave he saw by the collar. He wanted her name.

 

 

 

There was only one lamp lit in his bed chamber, sending yellow-edged shadows flickering up the walls. She looked around curiously at the room as she entered. It was quite simply furnished; a lionskin thrown over the floor, two shields and a Philistine battle trumpet hung upon the wall, and his lyre stood in the corner, propped against a low stool. The bed was hung about with fine Egyptian linen, which he pushed aside, beckoning her towards him.

"Lie down with your king, Bathsheba," he murmured, pulling off his sandals. She paused, eyeing him critically.

"You know I have a husband."

David inclined his head. "And you know I do not compel you to be here." In the lamplight there was a shimmer of red to her brown hair that felt achingly familiar.

"I am here by my own will, my lord," she said, with the hint of a smile at the corners of her mouth. "But you must know what it is you do. What we do."

"I know quite well, woman." He stood up, taking her by the shoulders and pulling her gently to him.

If he closed his eyes, the scent of the night on her was almost like a quiet grove in the mountains, and dried leaves... she kissed him and he tasted wild honey. Her breasts were soft, her body too curving and smooth, and yet there was a likeness, such a likeness that stole his breath and his senses as he pushed her down onto the bed.

It was darker still behind the linen drapings. She pulled her robe over her head, and the dim light played across her belly; she had never borne a child, never felt her body stretch and pull in ways only a woman could know. For a moment he wondered how old she was: was she even a babe in arms when he had hunted in the mountains with Jonathan? But she kissed him again and the thought faded. Her hands were eager against his back, tugging at his tunic until he unbuckled his belt and let her pull it off.

There was no breathless mystery here, no wonder at the very fact of flesh against flesh. Her hair was caught under her back and perhaps it looked shorter, hanging loose to the shoulder in soft waves. Her eyes were closed, and perhaps she too imagined him another man, remembered different hands and different breath on her cheek. She bit her lip, at the end, as if holding in another name. David only gasped for air that seemed too thick and close in the still of the room.

She did not linger, pulling herself away from him after only a little while and slipping the robe back over herself hurriedly. He watched her languidly from atop the blanket.

"Will you return?" he asked quietly, playing with a fold in the linen.

Bathsheba paused, and turned back towards him. "Perhaps. It is... lonely some nights."

"And you miss your husband, no doubt."

Her face contorted. "I miss love," she said evasively, then turned a careful eye on him. "As do you."

He looked away, pretending to brush something off the bed. "Love does not mix with politics, woman; a king does not love."

"But a shepherd does."

He looked up at her sharply, but she merely smiled, and left the room without another sound.

 


End file.
